Things Unsaid
by Mystikwriter
Summary: Sometimes it is the things left unsaid that matter the most.


Hardison wasn't a stranger to violence. He didn't like it, preferred to sit behind his computer and battle the bad guys with code and his awesome hacking skills, but that didn't mean he wasn't capable of using his fists when pressed.

Still, there was throwing a few punches, and there was taking a brutal beating that made him feel like a flimsy water balloon, only he was filled with something a little thicker than water.

His throat ached with every swallow, burned with every ragged breath he dragged into his lungs. Staring into the fridge, he could almost feel the unforgiving grip of a belt wrapped around his throat.

He didn't need a mirror to know that there were going to be bruises. He could feel their potential lying in wait beneath his skin, blood pooling as it leached to the surface.

The orange soda had never seemed so far away. It was sitting on the middle shelf, complacently waiting for him to decide whether he wanted it or not. He would have reached for it already if he didn't want to see how bad his hands were still shaking. He could feel the fine tremors in his fingers, felt his arm caught between relaxed exhaustion and wired panic. He'd heard sugar was good for people suffering from shock, which he was sure he was.

It took some work to get his fingers around the neck of the bottle, and he heard the plastic creak as he finally got a good hold. Using his weight he shouldered the fridge door closed and stumbled his way to the couch.

Sinking into the couch, Hardison let his momentum carry him down until he was on his side. His legs protested the awkward position and after some coaxing he got them up over the armrest. Breathing hard Hardison closed his eyes and tried to ignore the deepening ache of multiple bruises settling in for the long haul. He didn't have any broken ribs, but that didn't mean they weren't cracked. Considering that last kick to his ribs he certainly wasn't going to rule it out.

He was still trembling, adrenaline sliding through his veins in small bursts that kept him on edge. Closing his eyes he tried to take deep breaths, only the moment darkness covered his vision he was _convinced _Welter's hunk of muscle was looming over him, belt in hand.

Even knowing that he was safe behind a bolted and locked door didn't stop him from surging up onto his elbow, eyes wide and searching. The pain hit him seconds after his bout of paranoia, and it had him collapsing back with a groan, something disgustingly close to a whine catching in the back of his throat.

He knew he was bad off, and that he probably shouldn't have beat it out of Nate's loft as fast as he did, not when everyone had looked a little punchy. Still, the shock had been skittering up and down his spine, making his fingers twitch and spasm. By the time they'd all stumbled through the front door all he'd wanted was to hide out in his apartment and get quietly sick in peace.

That had been a bitch, pain hot and sharp across his ribs as he heaved his guts up into the toilet. There was something about those moments, with the nausea thick and oily as it climbed up his throat, his fingers clamped tight around the toilet seat. Feeling his stomach twist and heave had doubled his earlier panic until he'd been struggling to breathe around the vomit. His bruised throat had throbbed and ached, his neck hurting inside and out.

The panic attack had passed, eventually, and when he'd eventually stumbled into his kitchen, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, the fire in his ribs seemed worth it if it made his feet a little steadier.

Only now the panic was back, hooking into him and making his thoughts whirl and spin, never giving him the time to pin them down and try to think _rationally._ He knew he didn't have to leave the others, that it might have been a better idea to stay with them. He wasn't even sure what he'd said upon leaving, although he was sure he'd said something since he remembered feeling his lips move.

Might have been something about leaving a hot pocket in the microwave, now that he thought about it. Kind of funny since he'd done that more than once…

He'd had a good reason for not wanting to stay with the others, Hardison was sure. Whatever the reason he was regretting it now, with only deafening silence and his bruises to keep him company. From his position he could just see the TV remote sitting on the edge of the coffee table. His brain catalogued the distance even as his body told him 'hell no'.

Fingers moving sluggishly as he tried to keep them from trembling, he grabbed the bottle of orange soda he'd set aside earlier and carefully unscrewed the cap. Lifting the bottle to his lips he chugged a few mouthfuls before erupting in a flurry of coughs that had him clutching his throat and the bottle.

Every swallow was a knife sliding down his throat, and when he pressed his head back against the sofa cushions he could feel the phantom press of a belt biting into his jugular.

The knock at the door had him shooting up once again, nerves vibrating as his heart began to thud against his breastbone.

"It's me, Hardison. Open up."

Eliot, both the last and only person he wanted to see right now. For a moment Hardison considered his options, caught between the instinctive thought that as long as he didn't _move _everything would be okay, and the knowledge that he wasn't willing to turn away a friendly face, even if his relationship with Eliot was too strange to be considered friendship.

The decision was stolen from him when there was a click and the door swung open to reveal a stone-faced Eliot. Hardison watched from the couch as Eliot took a few steps over the threshold before closing the door, the shorter man's dark eyes sweeping over his loft in quick assessment before turning to the couch.

"What's up, man?" Hardison tried for his usual ease, but it was hard when his voice cracked down the middle and started another coughing spell.

Eliot headed for the kitchen as he waited for Hardison to ride it out, shaking his head. "You're such an idiot. Why did you leave?"

Through eyes that were streaming with tears Hardison watched as Eliot found a glass and filled it from the tap. Normally Hardison would only deign to drink tap water as a last resort, but as Eliot walked over Hardison reached for it without complaint.

It helped that he didn't even taste the water, too eager to get it to his bone dry throat to take the time and swish it around good and proper. "Wasn't really thinking to be honest."

"Damn right you weren't." Having certified that Hardison could drink water without endangering him self, Eliot strode back to the kitchen. Hardison heard the sound of the fridge opening and he bet that when Eliot reached for something his hands weren't shaking.

When Eliot came back with a bag of frozen peas Hardison looked at him askance over the top of his glass. "Dude, I don't even like peas cooked, what makes you think I'm going to like them frozen?"

"It's for your throat." The words were quiet and as Eliot handed the peas over his eyes were solemn, missing the spark of derisive humor that never seemed to vanish. Hardison took the peas with hands that still shook.

He tried not to flinch when he pressed the icy bag against his throat. He would have pulled it away if Eliot weren't watching him. Dark, intense Eliot; he'd already made a fool of him self, he wasn't about to make it even worse.

"It's okay to be freaked out, Hardison."

Swallowing hurt, but laughing hurt more so he stuck with swallowing. It felt like a rock was stuck in his throat. "That's good, cuz I'm going to be freaking out whether it's okay or not." He wanted to close his eyes, but the image of Welter smiling as his man wrapped a belt around his neck was just waiting for the chance to spring out at him.

Needing another drink Hardison reached for the orange soda, the carbonated liquid sloshing and leaping around as his hand shook. Hardison was attempting to wedge the bottle between his thighs when a calloused hand gently took it from him.

"The shock will wear off in a couple hours." The cap was unscrewed, the bottle held out. "Have you eaten anything yet?"

"Nah, man. I wasn't…." He hesitated, his gaze drawn down to study his denim clad knees. "I didn't think anything would stay down." Still avoiding Eliot's gaze, Hardison took a long swing of his orange soda, swallowing hard around the intense burn.

"You should eat something. It'll help to settle you down, take some of the edge off." The opposite couch squeaked as Eliot stood. Still admiring his knees, the denim stretched tight over the bones, Hardison was surprised when the orange soda was tugged from his grip. He looked up with a frown, but the quiet regard on Eliot's face rendered any complaint stillborn. "I think I saw some instant chicken soup in your cupboard the last time I was here."

Taking the orange soda with him, Eliot made his way to the kitchen, and soon the air was filled with the sound of clanging pots and pans, the opening of the refrigerator, and Eliot's quiet swearing as he lamented Hardison's food preference. Or lack there of.

With careful shifting Hardison returned to lying down, relaxing as Eliot's efforts in the kitchen filled the silence that had seemed so heavy earlier. He wasn't going to ask what Eliot was doing here, and he knew that Eliot wasn't going to offer his reasons. If Hardison thought it was because Eliot felt guilty about not getting there fast enough, well, he knew better than to mention it.

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><p>AN: I adore the Hardison/Eliot interactions and couldn't resist writing one of my own. This can be taken as pre-slash if you squint, but I will admit I wrote it with them as friends and nothing more.

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